"The world... ravaged... the sun beat down on the carbon stricken rock. Civilisation... a distant memory. Human-robot sex... the norm. Each day, every day, survival and ... how? this-thus."

A not too distant, distant too hot near-future.

Sunday, 13 February 2011

The bill

Down town Florida. Café. Some fucker's playing maracas on the stereo. Sustained percussion. Ear concussion. I opt for the lobster dish. No point scrimping. Appetites aside, I'm keen to see who draws first. Fork, and then knife. You see I'm here on official business. Clean up safe after the state line was crossed. Jurisdiction. Nice spicy dip sauce. Beer's good too. Furtive fugitive. Mind turns to weight of holster. Waiting for a break in the conversation and the door of admission. I know it's coming soon. There's only one way this ends. But at what cost? Try not to make a meal of it. Wait waiter.